At midnight, Wes and I finally left our table to join the revelers on the dance floor. We counted down the seconds, then whooped and hollered in celebration. Someone scattered buckets of confetti on our heads, while the bartender kept the champagne flowing. Wes and I kissed beneath a disco ball. Pulling back, we smiled at each other. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, we slipped out the door to stand under the stars.
The cold air was crisp and bracing. To me, it felt exhilarating. Maybe it was the champagne. More likely, it was Wes. We faced each other, hand in hand. He looked into my eyes.
“I love you, Keli Milanni.”
“I love you, Wes Callahan.”
Wes squeezed my hands and drew me closer. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Then go ahead and ask,” I said playfully.
“Ah, well, it’s kind of spur of the moment,” he said. “I know I’m ready, but I’m not sure if you’re ready.”
“I’m ready for anything,” I said. Ask away.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Jimi ran up. “Yo, Keli! I got a message for you.”
I frowned at the intrusion. “A message?”
“Yeah, there was a phone call.” He glanced down at a paper in his hand. “From a woman named A. J. She left her number and asked you to call her back when you can. Here you go.”
He handed me the note, then tipped his hat at Wes. “Carry on,” he said. He dashed back inside.
Bewildered, I read the note by the light of a street lamp. It was an Edindale phone number.
“Who’s A. J.?” asked Wes.
“I’m not sure, but I have a hunch. . . .” I trailed off, then folded the note and looked back up at Wes. “What was it you were going to ask me?”
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned and ran his fingers through his hair. “I was wondering . . . How would you feel about living together?”
Living with Wes? Sharing a home, waking up next to him, taking one big step closer to “happily ever after”?
“Hmm,” I said, pretending to consider it. “I think I would feel . . . thrilled about the idea.” I smiled at him, then laughed out loud when he picked me up and twirled me around.
“Awesome,” he said. “What a great start to the New Year.”
He took my hand again and we started walking back toward the nightclub door. Suddenly, Wes paused. “Wait a minute. ‘A. J.’ Could that be your aunt Josephine?”
Perceptive man. I was impressed. “It could be,” I said. “Maybe I’ll finally get to meet her after all these years. And find out what she’s been up to.”
Wes tilted his head as he glanced down at me. “Mystery follows you around, doesn’t it? I guess I oughta get used to that.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a surge of happiness. “I think you should.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to extend a great big “thank you” to all the folks who had a hand in the creation of this book. This includes my always supportive and encouraging family, from my husband, daughter, parents, and sibs, to my beautiful Grandma Lucille—and even my amazing in-laws and far-flung extended family. You’re all awesome!
And a deep gratitude, once again, to my trusted first readers: Tom, Cathy, Jana, and Jill. Although they are family, they always read my drafts with a careful and critical eye, catching all kinds of issues that I might have missed.
Special thanks to Jennifer Burke, friend, colleague, and fantastic attorney, for reading the manuscript from a lawyer’s viewpoint.
Thanks to my amazing agent, Rachel Brooks, whose sound advice always makes my books stronger. And thanks to my wonderful editor and champion, Martin Biro, as well as the whole Kensington team. You all rock!
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge all the real-life Witches, Wiccans, and Pagans who have shared their views in books, blogs, articles, and videos. I’d especially like to thank Traci Logan Wood and the other lovely people who graciously agreed to be featured in an interview series on my website. My intention in writing the Wiccan Wheel Mysteries has always been to be true to life and respectful of the Wiccan religion. It has been incredibly helpful and inspiring to hear the stories of so many diverse individuals on their own magically creative spiritual paths.
Blessed be to all.
If you enjoyed Yuletide Homicide be sure not to miss all of Jennifer David Hesse’s Wiccan Wheel series, including
BELL, BOOK & CANDLEMAS
Keep reading for a special excerpt.
A Kensington mass-market and e-book on sale now!
Chapter 1
The energy in the air was palpable. I could almost see it sparkling around the charred remains of the old bonfire. As I walked the perimeter of the stone-encircled clearing, I remembered the night I had learned about this place six months ago. My friend Farrah and I had stumbled upon a festive solstice celebration. We happened to be lost in the woods at the time, and Farrah kind of freaked out at the unexpected sight of a Pagan moon dance in the middle of the forest.
What Farrah didn’t know was that her best friend—yours truly—was a Pagan, too. A Solitary Wiccan, to be precise. Farrah, my BFF since law school, would freak out all over again if she found out. I was sure of it.
Who would have thought? Sweet, levelheaded Keli Milanni: staid attorney, disciplined athlete, borderline yuppie. And witch.
We watched from the shadows that night a few months ago. Since then, I started coming back here on early weekend mornings, weather permitting. It was a small, secluded glade, off the beaten track. I was able to access it through the open grounds of Briar Creek Cabins, which were nestled inside Shawnee National Forest about ten miles outside of town. Lucky for me, I always found it to be quiet and empty. Perfect for my own private nature-loving rituals.
Inhaling the crisp, woodsy air, I lifted my chin and closed my eyes. A light breeze rustled the bare branches above me, where watchful birds ruffled their feathers. The pure, familiar whistle of a cardinal called out like an old friend, and I opened my eyes in time to catch a glimpse of bright red flit through the trees. I didn’t know why cardinals sang all year long. All I knew was it made me happy.
Smiling, I traced a circle in the earth four times, pausing to bow in reverence at each direction. When I faced east, I raised my arms to the sky in a literal sun salutation. I breathed deeply. Rooting my feet to the earth, I envisioned myself as one of the trees that surrounded me. I murmured a prayer of devotion and thanksgiving for Mother Earth.
Then I closed my eyes, my body humming, the earth and the air humming around me. For a few moments I let it fill me up, energize me. When I opened my eyes, the world shimmered around me in an aura of golden light. I exhaled, then slowly retraced my steps around the circle to close the ritual.
Feeling light and peaceful, I walked over to the denim knapsack I had left next to an ancient white oak. I took out a small empty jar and used it to scoop some snow from the base of the tree. I would use it later, when it was time to say good-bye to winter. It wouldn’t be long now before the earth showed signs of the life stirring beneath its surface. Candlemas was less than two weeks away.
After securely tucking the jar into a pocket in the knapsack, I took a swig from my water bottle. Then I grabbed a handful of candied almonds to munch as I wandered around the woods. Each time I came here, I explored a little more, being careful not to venture too far afield. It was easy to get lost in the thick forest.
I definitely felt a connection to this place. And more than a spiritual connection; I felt a familial one as well. I had a feeling my elusive Aunt Josephine’s commune had been somewhere around here, once upon a time.
Aunt Josephine, my mom’s older sister, was the black sheep of her Nebraskan family. When she was sixteen or seventeen, she ran off with a guy—“a long-haired Bohemian poet,” according to the stories—who was a few years older than Josie. Her parents were livid. Josie left them a note but didn’t contact them again for months. Apparently, she and her man were headed to a music festiva
l out East somewhere but somehow wound up here in Southern Illinois instead. They made a home for some time, maybe a year or two. The next postcard Josie sent was from Florida, and the one after that was from New Orleans. Then the postcards stopped for a number of years, until out of the blue came one from another state. A few more years, yet another state. And so on.
I had received some of the postcards myself, on my tenth, twentieth, and, most recently, my thirtieth birthday. It was nice to know she thought of me, even kept track of me—like a kindly fairy godmother, if only from afar. My aunt always intrigued me, even though I had never met her. Her story was part of the reason I chose to come to Edindale for law school, and then stayed here to live.
Lost in these daydreams, I almost dismissed the snap of a twig some ten yards off. At first, I assumed the nearby rustling I’d heard was a squirrel. Now I wasn’t so sure. Senses on alert, I looked around, squinting through the thick stand of trees and shrubbery. In my meandering, I hadn’t bothered to stay on a trail. Now I realized I was only a few feet away from a winding dirt path. And there was someone coming down it, toward me.
I ran to the nearest big tree and hid behind its massive trunk. While I wasn’t skyclad—it was way too cold for nudity, not that I would remove my clothes outdoors anyway—I wasn’t exactly dressed for company. In my faux fur moccasins and white velvet hooded cloak, I would certainly raise an eyebrow.
Cringing behind the tree, I stood as still as possible, though I did gently lift the silver pentagram hanging on a chain around my neck and drop it into my dress. Just in case.
As the sound of shuffling footsteps drew nearer, I rested my forehead against the tree and silently begged the Goddess to shield me in invisibility. I didn’t dare peek around. If someone was to see me like this, I’d die of mortification. Why did I have to leave this darn cloak on? I was getting too complacent out here; I should never have been so bold.
After several quiet minutes, I realized the person must be gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I tiptoed out of my hiding place and ventured over to the path. At first, it appeared deserted. I let my eyes follow the trail as it snaked through the woods, crossed a creek, and then disappeared around a bend. I was about to scurry back to my knapsack when something caught my eye in the distance. A blob of bright purple rose from the ground, then bobbed into the trees.
I shook my head and squinted. What in the world?
Without thinking, I followed the trail a few feet, trying to catch a glimpse of the purple thing again. Sure enough, there it was, flashing in and out among the brown trees. After a moment, it dawned on me what it was, and I had to clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.
It was just the hiker. He or she must have been bending over, and then stood up. The vivid purple was the person’s jacket.
Here I thought I was dressed strangely.
The person was far enough away that I didn’t worry about getting caught anymore. I couldn’t even make out the color of their hair or any other features in the camouflage of the trees. Just that crazy purple coat, waving like a banner in a parade. As I watched, it moved farther away. Suddenly, it appeared to drop straight to the ground. Cocking my head, I waited a moment. Surely, it would reappear any time now.
When the purple jacket failed to materialize, I clenched my jaw. Had the person fallen? Was he or she hurt?
I ran down the trail toward the spot where the blur had dropped out of sight. As I got closer, I realized the person must have left the path. Whereas the trail veered left, the purple jacket had been weaving among the trees to the right.
I crisscrossed the area for several minutes, even calling out twice. I was sure this was the spot I had last seen a flash of purple. But there was no one there.
Whoever it was had completely disappeared.
* * *
Two days later, I had pretty much forgotten my little Saturday morning adventure in the woods. It occurred to me that the purple-clad hiker had probably spotted me—a suspicious, fur-footed woman in a ghostly-white riding hood—and disappeared on purpose. Who could blame them? I would have to be more discreet next time.
As I dressed for work Monday morning, I selected the polar opposite of my Goddess-worship garb: a tailored navy business suit with a straight knee-length skirt and matching blue pumps. The shoes were stylish, but comfy enough for walking—which was important, as I liked to walk to the office every chance I got. With the recent trend of mild temperatures, most of the snow had melted away. All I needed was my trench coat and shoulder bag, and I was ready for the day.
It was only a few blocks to the downtown four-story office building that housed Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty, LLP. On the way, I strolled through well-kept residential neighborhoods, cut across a rambling public park, and passed various shops and offices until I reached Courthouse Square. In the center of the square, set off on all sides by an open grassy space lined with a smattering of benches, was the courthouse, an impressive, one-hundred-plus-year-old limestone structure fashioned in the Beaux Arts style. Complete with arched entryways, two-story Doric columns, and a center dome with a clock tower, the Edin County Courthouse was a historical landmark and local treasure. It was also the place I routinely filed legal documents and represented clients at court hearings.
Today, however, I didn’t even glance at the iconic building. My attention was focused across the street where I noticed a crowd gathering toward the end of the block. Curious, I turned left at the intersection, instead of continuing down the avenue to my office, and wandered over to see what was going on. As I approached the throng, I noticed two police cars double-parked along the curb.
Maybe someone broke into the art gallery? Or the store selling designer handbags? I recalled hearing that the handbag store had been robbed about a month ago or so.
My heart sank as I realized it was the shop between the gallery and the handbag store that was cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape. Squeezing my way through a group of onlookers, I finally glimpsed the cause of all the staring and chatter around me. Two jagged gashes marred the storefront window of Moonstone Treasures, one on each side of the front door. Worse, though, was the angry black scrawl spray painted above the hole in the window. It was a single word in all caps, like a shouted accusation:
WITCH.
I froze at the sight, eyes widening. Then I quickly scanned the area for Mila Douglas, the shop’s owner, and exhaled in relief when I saw her. She seemed to be okay, if a little vulnerable, standing there hugging her slender arms. Already a petite woman, Mila appeared fragile in her ballet flats, lavender skinny pants, and black turtleneck sweater. Her cropped raven shag was pulled back from her face with a girlish headband. She and her young assistant, Catrina, were speaking to a police officer near the entrance of the store. While Catrina gesticulated excitedly, speaking quickly and pointing to the officer’s notepad, Mila cast a worried eye at the shards of broken glass strewn in front of her store.
Part gift shop, part psychic boutique, Moonstone Treasures was usually a welcoming place. It was a delightful destination that attracted both tourists and townies. Come in for an artsy greeting card, stay for a fun palm reading. Plus, they had an impressive collection of esoteric books and tools. As for me, I had been coming here on the sly ever since the shop opened four years ago, as soon as I discovered it carried Wiccan supplies. I couldn’t believe someone would vandalize Moonstone.
“I always knew that place was bad news.”
I swung around to find the source of the snide comment. A middle-aged couple walked past me, the plump woman shaking her salt-and-pepper curls self-righteously, the tall, pinched-face man staring pointedly at the storefront, his eyes glistening with great interest. My eyebrows narrowed as I watched them stalk away. I had half a mind to rush after them to defend Mila.
Before I could do anything, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned, a flash went off in my face. What the—? Blinking, I took a step back and thrust my palm outward to block any further snapshots. As my vis
ion cleared, the camera lowered and I recognized the smiling, dark-eyed photographer.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I forgot the flash was on.”
“Wes! What are you doing here?”
“Working.” He raised the camera hanging from the strap around his neck and pointed to the press ID clipped to the pocket of his wool peacoat. I noticed his usual scruffy jawline now sported a goatee, while his unruly dark hair peeked out from the edges of a gray knit cap.
I squinted at the ID. “You work for the Edindale Gazette?”
He nodded. “Around four months now.”
Four months. About the length of time since he’d last called me. I shook my head, conflicted. On one hand, there was no denying the excited flutter I felt every time I found myself within arms’ reach of Wesley Callahan. There was definite chemistry here, and I was 99.9 percent sure Wes experienced it, too. Since we first met last summer, I felt a growing connection between us. At a minimum, we always had fun together. So, what was the problem?
I thought back to our last date. After dinner and a play, we had stopped in at the Loose Rock, a fun nightclub owned by a mutual friend of ours. It was over drinks that the conversation had turned to my best bud, Farrah, and her puppy dog of a boyfriend, Jake. Jake wanted to get married, while Farrah made it clear she wasn’t ready to settle down.
“Good ol’ Jake. He seems to have unlimited patience,” I had commented, idly swirling the stirrer in my cocktail.
“Well, Farrah’s got nothing to apologize for,” Wes had said. “There’s nothing wrong with dating around. People have multiple friends, right? I mean, until you’re married or engaged, dating around makes the most sense.”
I stopped stirring my drink and eyed Wes carefully. “Um, yeah. Of course. I guess. As long as both parties are honest about it.”
Wes took a drink and gazed around the room, evidently not feeling a need to respond. I wasn’t ready to let the conversation go just yet.
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